Last Call
by bminor
Summary: Greg has had a crappy day at work. He is counting down the minutes until he can go home, when Rebecca walks into the bar. She seems weirdly quiet, but he's kind of pissed at her... so why does he find himself unable to turn her away? A Greg POV set towards the end of ep 107, right after Rebecca has confronted Paula in the hotel room.
**A/N:** a Greg POV Set towards the end of ep 107, right after Rebecca has confronted Paula in the hotel room. It's my first time writing for this fandom, so be kind! This was written for a friend, who is the reason I watch this show and who has been really encouraging about my writing. You know who you are!

It's been a long day. Sundays are always long; throughout the day it's the back to back Little League games and family lunches with screaming kids, then as it gets later there's a steady stream of dissatisfied adults hoping to pour some booze down their throats to try to avoid the reality of the inevitable work week, which starts its monotonous cycle again each Monday. Usually I only have to deal with one of these equally depressing groups, but today I had to pull a double shift – the new guy (who has only been working here a couple of weeks) decided to blow off his shift at the last minute. So I opened up this morning, and now I have to hang around to close the place up when the last patron stumbles off their bar stool and out the door. I'm so super lucky.

It's 9:30pm, and a thumping headache is threatening to burst through my skull. Today was a doozy – not one, but two douchebags I went to high school with decided to bring their disgusting children to Home Base. I swear that the asshole gene is hereditary - sometimes I think I should start a charitable group to offer genetic counselling to half of West Covina. On top of the charming blasts from my past, it's also been one of the hottest days in West Covina's history and I've been sweating underneath my black uniform all day. I may smell terrible, but at least I feel gross.

There are only two people left in the place, both hunched over the bar and staring into their drinks as the ice cubes melt in the sticky heat. They're regulars, and I know that they'll nurse their drinks for another 15 minutes or so, and then resign themselves to the fact that they have adult lives outside of this bar and slump home. Technically I could start cashing up the register now, since nobody in West Covina is likely to walk into the bar at 9:40pm on a Sunday, but for some reason Kevin is strict about staying open until our official closing time of 10pm. Weirdly, Kevin is never rostered onto the Sunday night shift.

Instead, I slowly unfurl my limbs from the hunched over posture they've been stuck in for basically 12 hours, and start to stretch out my back and shoulders. I hear a few things crack and pop, wonder why my body has suddenly started to make those noises since my last birthday, and think about the fact that mortal existence is futile and we're all going to die anyway so why even bother listening to Kevin. I start the process of cashing up the register, loudly shovelling each pile of coins into my hand, then letting each one fall through my fingers and drop noisily back into the register as I count them. As I leaf through each stacks of notes, counting as I go, it occurs to me how little power I have that my only means of rebellion is doing what I'm supposed to do – just 15 minutes earlier than I should. But damn it, nobody else is getting a drink tonight, and I made that happen. It hasn't escaped my attention what a crappy mood I'm in, but since there's so little of the day left I figure I should just lean into it.

As I stretch I feel a twinge in my lower back – I'm severely aching from spending all day yesterday helping Josh put together that damn table for Valencia, who was predictably the picture of ungratefulness. Just the type of person you wanna be moving in with. I sigh loudly as the drama of Josh's life plays out in my mind like a badly-drawn flipbook, but I spin around when I hear a voice say "am I too late for last call?"

Rebecca Bunch stands on the other side of the bar, looking wrung-out but uncharacteristically calm. She's not exactly the mellowest of people, and there's something different about her mood tonight – I have to supress a smirk as I wonder to myself if people in white labcoats have finally caught up to her with a loaded syringe of some kind. As she stands there waiting for my answer – which I should probably give her before my silence gets creepy – I see something in her eyes which makes me decide to keep this gentle jab to myself.

"Kinda. But this one is on me," I say, pulling out a bottle of her favourite beer (not that I've really been paying attention or whatever) and popping off the cap for her.

"Thanks," she smiles, collapsing onto the stool right in front of me. She looks exhausted, distracted, and a little sad. We haven't spoken in a few days. She tends to do that; I'll think that we're finally starting to get somewhere and that she's actually engaging with me, and then there'll be radio silence for days. After Thanksgiving night it seemed like maybe she was genuinely interested in being friends – she even suggested going to a movie together. But the past few days she hasn't replied to the texts I've sent, and in all honesty I'm a little pissed at her. How can you know what to expect from someone who is always so hot-and-cold? It always just ends in tepid frustration. But for some reason it doesn't stop me asking the next question.

"Everything okay?"

She looks me in the eye, clearly trying to decide what kind of response to give – I guess trying to figure out whether to lie to me or not, which is a really weird realisation to have in the moment.

"I think I will be." She gives me a tight, weak smile, and before I know what I'm doing I've told her to go sit in the bleachers and that I'll join her in a couple of minutes. She agrees without any kind of protest, and it occurs to me that she probably didn't come here this late on a Sunday for the beer. If human adults want beer they can buy beer from a store and drink it in their own houses. If they want to talk, they go find someone they want to talk to, and she came to me. I have to begrudgingly admit to myself that this makes me… what's the word… happy?

It also makes me impatient to get rid of the last two people avoiding their realities, and I make up some excuse about needing to close early for cleaning. I've found that if you start to give people too much detail about the gross mess that can come from a kid's body, they don't ask any questions. Or maybe they know it's bullshit, but figure they have to face reality eventually. As they shuffle out the door, I lock and bolt it behind them, flipping off a few light switches but making sure I leave on the small outdoor light which casts a weak yellow glow onto the last few rows of bleachers. Grabbing a bottle for myself, I take a breath and then head outside to join her.

I flop down in the seat next to her, relieved to finally be off my feet after the day I've had. I take a long swig of beer, and hold the cold bottle up to my pounding temples. We sit in comfortable silence for a minute or so while I breathe in lung-fulls of the night air. It's only now that I realise how stuffy the air was inside, and I sense my shitty mood ease off a little as I start to feel like a functioning person again. I turn my head to look at her, and see she's staring out into the large expanse of field in front of us (lit up by unnecessarily powerful stadium lights), clearly lost in thought.

"So," I say softly, "want to tell me what's up?"

She doesn't answer right away, but I can sense that she's searching for the right words. Eventually she speaks.

"You ever have one of those nights that just totally turns you around and makes you think you've been living your entire life wrong since adolescence?" she asks, still staring out to the field below.

"At least once a week. Sometimes twice a day on holidays," I reply, offering up a small smile.

She smiles back, and exhales deeply before sinking down low in her seat and resting her head back against the rim, eyes closed. She stays like this as she continues talking.

"I think I had a 'rock bottom' moment today. A few of them, actually. I mean, I'm not about to join any 12-step programmes or anything, but… bleak times for Rebecca Bunch. Not my finest of hours," she admits, although there is still a reassuring levity to her tone.

"Care to share?" I ask, cautiously.

"Let's just say that if you're thinking of taking a pill that you found on the bathroom floor in a psychiatrist's office, you should probably take my advice and not do that. I undertook the research on behalf of humankind, and can tell you that the results of that particular experiment are not going to be a proud moment for your family."

"Jesus," I blurt out, too surprised by her honest response to censor myself. I take a few seconds to choose my words more carefully. "Why would you do that?" I ask, as non-accusatorily as possible.

"Hah, that _is_ the million-dollar question. Do you really wanna know? You sure you can handle it?" she smirks, opening her eyes and looking over at me.

It's so rare that I ever get this kind of genuine, sustained eye contact from her that it always throws me when it happens. She's normally talking a mile a minute, and I sometimes get the feeling that it doesn't matter much to her who she's talking to as long as she can maintain the pretence that she's not just talking to herself. Right now she's actually looking right at me, on the brink of a real conversation. I try to ignore the fact that her pale blue eyes boring straight into mine make my stomach flip a little, because I know that the little spark of hope it ignites is just doomed to lead nowhere, and 'STOP BEING A MASOCHIST' has been at the top of my list of New Year's Resolutions this year.

"Hit me with it," I say, trying to seem casual but not flippant. It's a difficult balance to find, especially when you're a sarcastic ass like me and people assume you have a baseline reading of 'Cynical'.

She raises her eyebrows and nods as if to say 'don't say I didn't warn you', but remains silent. I realise that she is carefully picking out her words, figuring out the best way to express what she wants to tell me. She's really thinking about it. I'm not sure she's ever done that very much before; it always feels like her words are constantly cued up and raring to go on her tongue, just waiting for permission to tumble out of her mouth. Not that I mean she's thoughtless, it's just… sometimes when she talks it just feels like it's all planned and prepared, and I'm never sure if I'm actually getting Rebecca or if it's a carefully constructed identity she gives people in the hope that they don't ask any more questions about who she might be.

There have been moments, though, where I know I've seen her. It was really her, and it felt so different. On Thanksgiving night it felt like she totally let down her guard with me, and making jokes about a stupid dog show was the best time I've had in… well, since the taco festival. And then it rushes back into my mind how the taco festival ended, and it's like a bucket of water has been thrown on that little spark of hope. I force myself to stop being an idiot and get real. I see her open her mouth to talk and I snap out of the argument I'm having inside my own head.

"I just really didn't want to feel what I was feeling… which is perhaps the most succinct way to describe my approach to life since I was a kid. But back then it was easier to find things to distract me from it. Most of the time the distraction was school, and then that led to college, and then law school, and then all of a sudden I'm working at a top New York law firm but I can't stop my hands from shaking because I've run out of pills and I'm about to be made partner and I just realised that I'm not actually happy about it. Hence my decision to move here."

"Yeah, most people in West Covina arrived as the result of a mental breakdown," I joke, hoping this is the right response to put her at ease after a pretty raw confession. She smiles, and I feel relief that I at least didn't offend her.

"I just feel like I've been kinda numb for most of my life. And I don't want to do it anymore. I want to feel my feelings, but… I guess I just don't know how I'm going to start doing that when I'm already supposed to be an adult person who has their shit together, you know?"

"If you're talking about having shit together, then yes, I'm obviously the person to ask, what with my crappy bartending job and the fact that I have no college education or savings of any kind. All my shit is totally together and accounted for, and _you_ are the failure," I joke drily, knowing that she will get the reassuring undercurrent of my sarcasm.

"I know, I know, I put too much pressure on myself. But try convincing my mother of that…" she sighs.

I feel a weird surge of protectiveness for her, and I'm suddenly angry at her mother. I gather every last ounce of will power I have to supress my humour defence mechanism, because I can tell that maybe she needs me to open myself up in the way that she currently is. I take a breath.

"Your mother might be the voice in your head telling you that you're not doing well enough, but she's wrong. Parents are often wrong, trust me. You just have to find the quiet little voice that tells you how great you are, and pay so much attention to _that_ voice that it gets louder and louder, until it drowns out that other bullshit voice. That other voice is a fucking lie, Rebecca. Because you're so smart, and you never give up if something is important, and if you want to figure out how to feel your way through your emotions instead of numbing them then I know you'll do it. Like, it's ridiculous to me that you would doubt yourself on that, that's how sure I am." My heart is racing in my chest, and I pray to the God I'm not even certain I believe in that I didn't just embarrass myself in a spectacular fashion.

"Wow…" she says, dumbstruck. She sits up in her seat and stares out to the field again, processing what I have just blurted out. After what feels like a long pause she says, "…well I guess I know who I'm handing the phone to next time my mother calls."

Her tone is light and jokey, but I notice wetness pooling in her eyes. She looks in the opposite direction from me, and I can tell she's struggling to keep the hot tears at bay. Before I can talk myself out of it, I slip my arm around her shoulders and pull her towards me the tiniest amount. My hand starts to rub the top of her shoulder, up and down, up and down, and I wonder if my brain even has control over my own body anymore, because this whole thing is such a bad idea. And yet on I go, up and down, up and down.

I'm starting to wonder if she's feeling awkward about it, when she turns her head towards me and rests it on my shoulder, closing her eyes. I feel a familiar clench in my stomach and can't stop myself from resting my head on hers. _You idiot_ , a voice in my head says.

We sit like this in silence for five minutes, and I feel her breathing become slow and calm. From what seems to be out of nowhere, she asks, "what do I smell?"

A flash of self-consciousness runs through me, remembering how much I've been sweating all day.

"Oh, um, we don't have A/C in the bar, so…yeah…" I apologise, awkwardly.

"No, no, that's not what I meant," she replies, reassuringly. "You smell like burnt herbs of some kind. Like…sage?"

"Oh! Right. Yeah, I was helping Josh yesterday with the new place. There was a whole sage… incident." What I really mean was that there was a Valencia incident, but I've learned that it's best not to talk to Rebecca about Josh and Valencia – it's the quickest way to get her to close herself off and drag out that carefully controlled identity again. It's kind of infuriating how easy she is to read when it comes to Josh.

"Oh right, the new place. Co-habitational bliss and whatnot."

"I'm kind of surprised you can even still smell it on me. I guess he burnt so much of it that it seeped into my pores," I joke, hoping to avoid the shutdown that I suspect might be lurking on the horizon.

Tonight, the odds must be in my favour, because she simply rests her head back on my shoulder and stares out at the groundskeepers on the field below, undertaking their monthly maintenance of the pitch. I'm trying really hard not to be a complete moron, but I'm unable to avoid breathing in the scent of her hair – if it happens due to sheer proximity then hair-sniffing isn't creepy, right? _It might not be creepy, but it definitely isn't smart_ , the voice in my head reminds me. I decide to take my own advice and ignore the voice in my head. So I just sit with her like this, and inhale the night air, and try to memorize what this feels like.

Eventually the groundskeepers finish their work and we hear one of the stadium doors get pulled shut as they leave, the echo-y slam breaking us out of the trance.

"Wow, it's getting late. We should probably get going," she yawns, sitting up and stretching her stiff neck.

"Yeah, my bed is calling..." I agree. She gives me a slightly cautious look and I realise what I have said. "Oh! No! …me! My bed is calling _me_. I just meant… I'm tired, I've had a long day." I add, fumbling over the words. She just laughs at me.

We walk back into the bar, which is still slightly stuffy, and she picks up her bag as I unlock the front door for her. She's just about to walk through it when she turns back to me.

"Thanks Greg. For listening." Her voice is small but genuine.

"Hey, I'm a bartender – it's what we do," I respond, with a practiced lilt.

"No. You stopped being a bartender about 40 minutes ago. This was…"

"Friendship?" I add quickly, with a smile. I really wanted to know how she was going to finish the sentence, but I was concerned that if I didn't fill in the blank I would have kissed her in the time it took her to think of the answer.

"Yeah, friendship," she agrees, grinning. "Well thanks, anyway."

"Of course. Night."

"Night."

I shut the door behind her and relock it, as I watch her walk to her car, get in and drive away.

I walk up to the bar and slump over it, resting my head in my hands and sighing in frustration. _You absolute numbskull_ , the voice berates. I'm exhausted and can't make sense of anything else tonight, so I do my final checks of the bar, lock up for the last time and then head out to my own car. As I drive away from the parking lot, the voice in my head makes its final comment for the night; _I guess that New Year's resolution still needs some work_.


End file.
